


Heel-Face Turn

by Erimentha



Series: Ebon Light OTP Prompts [5]
Category: Ebon Light (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Secret Identity, otp prompt, self indulgent as hell, will probably change the rating in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 21:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erimentha/pseuds/Erimentha
Summary: Alenca Goffil is an introverted young woman who spends most of her free time in her garden.Duliae Laushust is a businessman who is known for eccentricity. He's also the Onyx Chandler, a supervillain whose life's mission has turned out to be nothing.The Chandler takes up trespassing. Duliae wants a landscaper. Alenca deals with both.





	Heel-Face Turn

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an OTP Prompt I read some time ago. Person A is shy and spends most of their time cultivating their garden. Person B is a supervillain. One day, Person B announces their retirement, and Person A comes home to find them in their garden.

 

Sometimes Alenca wishes she didn’t live outside of the city.

Sure, the prices are better, and it means her commute to the garden centre’s shorter, but it could be creepy some nights… particularly nights like tonight. Whenever the heroes and the villains of Gha’alia are active, ordinary folk are all too happy to huddle inside. Less accidents that way. It leaves the streets empty, save for a few people who have places to be. Alenca is one of those people.

Deliveries had ran late, so Alenca was still sorting and unpacking at the time she’d usually be heading home. Of course, this was the night she had errands to run after work – she’d put off grocery shopping longer than she should have – so it left her driving home on mostly-empty roads, listening to the same playlist on her phone that she always listened to on her drive. If her radio wasn’t busted, she might have turned to that for some variety… but she knows what it would be saying.

_The Onyx Chandler’s retiring._

Her grip on the wheel tightens. Earlier that day, Gha’alia’s – no, the _country_ ’s – most imposing villain had made an announcement. As usual, he did it in style: a video that interrupted every broadcast in the area, during which he said, in that odd, modulated voice, “Never fret, Gha’alia. Today is the day you can rest easy; today is the day the Chandler steps back into the shadows.”

The video cut off as the feed darkened into nothing.

Some people thought it was a feint. Others were relieved. Some were disappointed; the Chandler usually sought the rare and exotic in his crimes, which meant he usually targeted the sort of people who owned rare and exotic things. Though nobody went so far as to see him as a folk hero, at the very least they found his exploits entertaining.

Alenca’s not one of those people. She loves the city, sure, and she loves her work, but Edric doesn’t have these kinds of problems. You don’t have to worry about needing to take a detour because some wannabe hero accidentally busted a water main. No doubt her aunt Vanya would have some sort of wry comment about it the next time Alenca calls her.

But for now, at least, she can be alone with her thoughts. Nobody would be blowing up her phone; she doesn’t have many friends, outside of her coworkers. No boyfriend. Her biggest concerns are an easy-going landlord who lets her do as she pleases with the yard and a manager that’s more concerned with good results rather sticking to the rules.

With an inward sigh, Alenca turns into her driveway, glad to be home. Her house is in a bit of an awkward spot – south of the city, past the warehouses, where there are mostly wild fields that were cleared out, decades ago, for construction projects that moved elsewhere. The number of train tracks nearby drove the price down too low to make suburbs in the south attractive, apparently. …She suspects one of the reasons her landlord priced the rent low was that they’re just glad to have someone on the property that’s a squatter or a criminal. Alenca doesn’t mind the isolation; when she was looking for a place to rent, all she’d wanted was a yard with enough space to be creative. Vanya had taught her how to defend herself, anyway.

Her backyard garden, protected by a privacy fence, is her pride and joy. Every plant was chosen to complement the other, with manicured stone pathways and little crawling flower beds to add pops of colour beneath the green. Some solar lights, subtle but warm in tone, to brighten things at night. Her favorite part, though, is her wooden porch swing, with its cozy cushions, nestled in one corner, where she can read and relax. She’d contemplated adding another bench once, but she didn’t host, so who would use it?

Her existence is a partially isolated one. Even in Edric she felt the outsider – in a small town, a parent that was an outsider practically passed that down – and the fact that she lived with her aunt never helped matters. When she first moved to the city, she felt awkward, much too country, and her shyness was only reinforced. Now, she counts her blessings – she has a job and a house. She can feed herself. Both she and Vanya are in good health. Loneliness seems a petty matter in comparison.

Still, when she’s in her garden, even she can forget that for a time.

Not tonight, though. She has chores, and dinner to cook, so her paradise would have to wait.

… at least, that’s what she thought.

Alenca is just on her way back from throwing her laundry in the wash when she notices that her watering can is gone. Her back door being the kind that slides open, it’s made entirely of glass, and she can see the spot where she usually keeps the can is empty. She knows her habits – she always puts it down right before she heads inside – so it’s not like she’d have misplaced it.

Maybe a racoon got to it.

No, that was a bad thought. A mutant racoon, maybe, one that needed a watering can for their own garden, but she wasn’t keeping food in the damn thing, so why would they take it? Probably a gust of wind.

… at least, that’s what she tells herself, but she puts on her sandals anyway and steps outside. The wind has a slight bite to it and she wraps her arms a little tighter around herself, craning her head to see where the can might have been blown –

Someone else is in her garden.

She can see, in the glint of the moonlight, a broad back, where normally she’d be seeing fence. They’re bending down – damn it, her phone’s inside! – and she’s about to run inside when she hears a voice. _Modulated_.

“Please pardon my trespass, my dear.”

The figure straightens, turns to face her. They’re dressed in a suit, only _not_ – the shapes are there, but the fabric is wrong, much hardier, as if it were made for stealth, or combat, or some sort of action movie. But what catches her attention more than anything is the face or, rather, the lack of one. Instead, there is a mask. It’s an intricate, intimidating thing, that looks like a skull, one that was stretched somewhat, only not.

The Onyx Chandler is standing in her garden, clutching her watering can. There’s a slight tilt of his head as he notices where her attention has gone. His laughter is an uncomfortable sound on her ears. “A momentary folly. Such things were never my forte.”

He holds it out, despite the distance between them, and doesn’t make to move an inch. Alenca can almost imagine the look on his face – he’s all but making her come to him.

She takes a few steps forward, enough so that she can reach out and take the can, but she avoids looking at the mask. Once the plastic touches her hands, she hugs it to her chest and looks away entirely. Too late, she sees that the gate at the side of her house is open a crack, the padlock hanging off the hinge.

Again, the Chandler sees where her attention has gone. “A simple mechanism. Suitable to keep out most, I can imagine. Only picked, not broken; I will close up when I leave.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence. Alenca’s arms tighten around the cool plastic; something about the way he speaks, as if _he_ owns the place, has her latching on to the nearest source of security she has. “… thank you, I guess.” Her words are a mumble, but night stifles any other noise, so she knows he heard it.

Another laugh. She almost thinks this one sounds different, more self-deprecating. “Unlike the dreaded Onyx Chandler to have manners, I suppose.”

Alenca doesn’t say anything in response, other than looking back at the padlock. She’s out of her depth in most social situations; this one might as well be an ocean on another planet. Instead, she turns the put the watering can back in its usual spot.

“I would appreciate if you didn’t call the authorities just yet, dear.”

There’s a tension to those words, one that makes Alenca turn. His head is turned towards her, though his body is at an angle. The mask is as discomforting as ever. She looks at one of her solar lights instead.

“Why are you here?”

He must not have been expecting for her to respond his threat with a question, as there’s a silence that settles between them. It makes her nose itch.

Then, there’s the sound of a stiff material shifting – his suit? – as he comes to stand next to her. The air is a little less fresh; her lungs are filled with an acrid scent, like gunpowder, and the dizzying tang of oil.

“There’s very little life in this area; most people prefer to live elsewhere, perhaps not caring for the bland hegemony of the city. I came beyond Gha’alia’s boundaries to think. I have been restless, so when I saw an old house with a new fence, I was curious, and in my state that led to action.”

Alenca would laugh at how silly it seems – a chance encounter with a supervillain because of her new fence – except then she watches the Chandler reach down and run one gloved fingertip along the edge of a leaf.

“You are fortunate.” He pauses. In an awkward motion, he then shifts his attention to an early summer bloom. “You have a tranquil garden.”

It is a strange situation, but still Alenca feels a small fluttering of pride in her chest. “… thank you.”

“You must be satisfied with your gardener.”

This does make her laugh, however hesitantly. The realization that she just laughed in front of a man as dangerous as the Onyx Chandler quickly has her stuttering an explanation. “I’m – I’m my gardener.”

The Chandler straightens his posture and looks her up and down, as if he is trying to determine the truth of the matter. She stands as still as she can, though she can’t keep her gaze focused on him for long, given how unnerving the full force of his attention is. In the end he nods and takes a few steps along the path. She can’t hear his footsteps – perhaps they’re muffled. He seems to be satisfied that she won’t be running for help, or the authorities, as he keeps much of his attention to the plants themselves and the sky, often looking from one to the other. When he glances at her, it is an afterthought.

The third time he’s looked at her, Alenca is unsettled enough to speak. “I have work in the morning, but –“

But what? _I’d like to go inside to get some sleep? Please don’t hurt me if you think I’m a loose end?_ Not that the Chandler’s known for loose ends and witnesses…

“- I designed this for thinking,” is how she continues the sentence, gesturing a little to the porch swing, “and reading – any kind of peaceful activity, really. If you find it useful, then it’s served its purpose.”

 He stops in his movements, then turns only his head to regard her. “You offer hospitality to one such as me?”  

Alenca shrugs half-heartedly. “… you could have harmed this – or me, I guess – but you haven’t. If you need a place to think…”

She trails off, satisfied the implication is clear for him.

For the first time, the modulation gives way to something almost natural and warm, the laugh not as grating. “You needn’t worry, my dear. I loathe to destroy that which is beautiful.”

Alenca doesn’t know what to say to that, so she nods and busies herself with inspecting one of her lights. Once she’s straightened it in the dirt, she gets back up, about to ask aloud if she can get him anything, only to find she’s alone.

The gate is latched and locked as she had left it that morning.

For a while, she searches, trying to see if there is any sign of another presence – a broken twig, a footprint – and comes up empty. Not even that curious scent, that she caught only when he was near, lingers.

Before going in, she checks the gate – her intention had been to make sure it was locked, but when she gets close she realizes something has been placed on top of the padlock. A business card, matte black in design. She has to hold it up to the light to read the words that have been cut out:

_It has been a pleasure doing business with you._

**Author's Note:**

> if you think duliae's alter-ego wouldn't be extra enough for a laser-cut business card you're wrong sorry i don't make the rules


End file.
